Would that in yonder beechen shade,
Some prayer less pitiless were prayed,
And sung less ruthless psalm.
Oh, that young Freedom's faltering tread
Were not o'er heaps of mangled dead,
Nor stained her garment fair;
And Liberty, thy pinion white
Would wave o'er scenes of peace and light; Not o'er the lurid glow of fight,
Nor homesteads blazing wildly bright
Upon the midnight air.
The hallowed day its calm repose
In pity cast on friends and foes,
And drew their thoughts to Heaven;
So flowers turn up to cloudless skies
The sweet soft look of loving eyes,
When sultrier grows the summer air,
And unseen storms their wrath prepare
Behind the hills in columns black,
And murmurs mark the lurid track
The angry bolt has riven.
And now the sun a gentler ray
Throws on the face of dying day;
And Bryan's thoughts a gentler tone
Take from the scene they dwell upon,
While the soft evening's tender grace
Dissolves the shadows from his face,
As, all alone, his steps he bent
To scan the wall and battlement;
And see ere war should wake anew
The scenes his eager fancy drew;
And reach the leaguer's foremost bound,
Where parapet and rampart wound
Within their toils the city round.
Five furlongs from the city wall
A mound told of huge burial;
And trampled turf and bloody stain
Shewed where war's tide had flowed amain,
Recoiled and flowed and ebbed again.
Here surged the sortie's foremost war,
And two pale lines the herbage mar,
With verdant space between ;
For one long hour, pike, lance, and blade,
A glittering archway, o'er it played ;
The furious onset here delayed;
The reckless footstep here was stayed;
'Twas sacred ground, I ween.
Here, where the sortie's force was spent,
Did Bryan pause with eye intent;
While the fierce spirit of the place
Glowed fitful in his changing face.
But flush and frown soon passed away,
And sadness holds her rightful sway;
The boldest e'en will hold his breath
In the still company of death,
And own him conqueror;
Victor and vanquished thought of fame,
And played to win a prizeless game,
And won, at best, a blood-gilt name,
A name-what is it more?
It is not those in battle lost,
Who say the prize was worth the cost,
Or feel the victor's pride.
The dead a different tale would tell,
If the stern truth their lips could spell;
Victor and vanquished, all who fell,
Were on the losing side.
So vividly on Bryan crowd
These thoughts-they seemed to speak aloud,
And warn him from the strife.
Less bold a spirit fear had felt,
Perchance had prayed, perchance had knelt,
In thankfulness for life;
But Bryan's brow with anger flushed,
The rising sigh was rudely hushed,
The tear that on his eyelid shone
Melted as dewdrop in the sun,
So fiercely glowed his eye with shame
That thoughts like these his heart should tame;
Or fear of death unnerve his hand,
When Freedom bade to wield the brand.
To know, to feel he was not free
To join in War's wild revelry
From Bryan's memory was torn
For one brief moment by his scorn.
IMPORTANT NEWS-YORK.
BUT sound of hoofs the stillness broke,
And Bryan to himself awoke,
And in surprise his scorn forgot;
For, scarce a stone's cast from the spot,
With whip and spur to utmost speed
A horseman urged his reeling steed.
Save where the stroke his flank laid bare
Bryan could see no colour there;
The foam and dust so thickly lay
He could not say 'twas black or gray.
Dripping his flank from crimson stain,
With nostril wide and swollen vein,
His drooping head could feel no rein,
He seemed to feel-he felt no pain;
Instinctive on his course he held,
Nor prick nor stroke his speed impelled;
His willing heart and sturdy limb
Survived, though consciousness was dim.
'Tis his last race, and nobly run,
Strength, courage, will are all but gone,
Had either left his task half done,
No Marston Moor had e'er been won.
Aside three paces Bryan strode,
Nor turned the horseman from his road;
The stranger raised his hand and made
Secret fraternal sign and said:
"Rupert is near, the morrow's light
Will bring his cavaliers in sight."
Wild was his look, his accents hoarse,
He swerved not-paused not in his course;
So near he passed where Bryan stood,
His cheek was splashed with foam and blood, For with such thrilling news of weight
Guy Dayrell rode precipitate;
Nor paused till on the nearer bank
Of Foss his steed beneath him sank;
And drooping ear and eyeball dim,
And rigour stiffening every limb,
Told Dayrell he would rise no more,
His last and direst race was o'er.
No useless grief Guy Dayrell spent,
Nor tear nor sigh bespoke lament;
His useless sword he left in sheath;
His pistols lay on Goldsbrough heath,
Flung, as a broken toy aside,
And worthless in such desperate ride,
When last their deadly knell had rung,
And foemen closest on him clung.
Just as he fell the steed was found
Next eve, when Rupert scoured the ground,
And told why Fairfax crossed the Ouse,
How Leven had mista'en the news,
And thought, "Prince Rupert leads his force
From Knaresburgh by directest course."
Free from his steed his foot he flung,
And half across the stream he sprung;
He cursed the ooze that held him back,
He crushed the tall reeds in his track,
He gained the bank-one hurried shake,
The while he marked the course to take,
Then to his utmost speed he bent,
And breathless reached the bannered tent;
Where Fairfax conned the sacred page
With the keen scrutiny of a sage.
His eye for ancient sieges sought,
And for what price each prize was bought;
Marked how Religion skill had given,
And forethought gained the meed of Heaven;
Valour uncertain paths had trod,
And fortitude in honour stood,
And won the longed-for praise of iron men of God.
Guy Dayrell strove his tale to tell,
But muttered not one syllable ;
By some strange spell his tongue seemed bound,
His lips to move, yet give no sound;
His bloodshot eye, dishevelled hair
And gesture wild bespeak despair,
For news so high and terrible
His stubborn tongue refused to tell.
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